Buffy at Speed dating
by Bud Cordwell
Summary: My night at speed dating goes badly when I meet a girl who is into dangerous men. My women phobia increases slightly.


I had a terrible idea the other night that I should go speed dating. I hadn't touched a woman in three years (I'd been worried about getting diseases through saliva contact) and I began to panic that I would be alone forever. Everyone I knew was getting married and it was working for them. My parents were both happily married – things were looking up after they got divorced and decided to be with other people.

So I slopped on my jacket, pulled up my tie and got ready to leave. It occurred to me that I should be ashamed. I was going to a speed dating night; I was officially one of the no-hopers, the ones who couldn't meet people in the real way. I should be using the Internet. What made it worse was that I didn't care. I felt like the serial killer in the identity line who put his hand up and said, 'Yes, I did that one.'

I arrived a few minutes late because I had a sudden fear that I hadn't locked my bike up properly and had to go back a few times to check. By the time I got into the hall, everyone was in place and I was herded onto a table. A woman sat in front of me and launched into a huge spiel about her career in nursing which made me imagine her holding my liver in her hand. I had to mark 'not interested' on the dating card when she was gone.

The next woman worked in advertising – she wrote the jingles for the commercials on the television. To stop myself from tearing her hair out, I rose and went to the bathroom. Not interested. Woman after woman went by until I saw a girl a few tables up, mid twenties and stunning, blonde hair and pinched little nose. Maybe she would be worth the wait. I finally got rid of the woman who collected oddly shaped eating utensils and felt my hands begin to shake as the blonde woman sat down in front of me, glowing like an orange traffic light but less orange.

I said hello and that my name was Bud and that I worked in straightening paperclips in an important law firm. I said I could show her around the office sometime. I asked her what she did.

"I save the world," she said.

I paused.

I had planned to respond with something generic like 'cool' or 'interesting' but it occurred to me that neither of these would be appropriate. I thought of a few other things to say but they jammed in my oesophagus on the way out.

Maybe she was joking. Maybe she did something really important like design meteorite shields for when the earth's atmosphere failed. Maybe she was deranged. There was no harm in that – was there? It would be discrimination if I didn't want to talk to her just because she was crazy.

"That's nice," I said.

"It's cool if you don't believe me," she said. "All the other guys thought I was a few monkeys short of a barrel."

I thought it was best to steer the conversation away from mental health and asked her whether she was enjoying the evening. She said it was sweet in a "come back to my place, mum can make us waffles" sort of way. I asked her if she had met anyone she liked. She paused before beginning, as if considering whether it was worth answering.

"If you knew anything about my love life you'd get why none of these guys are my type. I just can't sit by the fire all night while Nigel or Norman cook me dinner."

"What do you mean?" I asked. (It's always a mistake to ask questions.)

"Like there was this guy I was seeing once," she said, "who was on edge all the time. He could have cracked at any point, gone off the wall and started killing people. So what did I do? I fell in love with him. I went behind my mum's back, I didn't tell my friends and then when things went all up-the-creeky I was left with a big fat trophy for douche-bag of the year.

"And if the bad boy thing wasn't enough, the guys are always older than me. And I don't mean studying math in the next grade old, I'm talking older than your parents old."

I looked up at the clock on the wall. Surely five minutes must be up.

"It's like I can't stand the whole happy ending thing. I don't want the, 'hey honey, can you pass me the sugar' bizzo and the 'gees, it looks like you've had a hard day, can I warm your slippers up for you?' jazz. If it's doomed to failure then I don't need to find an escape plan. I'm crap at escape planny things."

The management mustn't be looking at the clock. This was taking ages.

"And then there was this other guy. He was sort of friends with the first one…"

"Next tables, please," said the lady on the microphone. I breathed a secret sigh of relief. The next lady in line got up and waited for the blonde girl to move along. But she didn't.

"Skip to the next one, lady, I'm talking here," she said.

My stomach began to turn and not gently like a door handle but more violently like it had decided to stage a protest in my abdomen. The blonde stayed in the seat and continued to talk. The rest of the night passed by and so did all the other women until management finally threatened to lock us in if we didn't finish soon. I told the woman I had to go and I got up and went.

She followed me into the car park. She wondered if she could get a lift home and I was glad I had brought my bike. She then asked me for my phone number. I didn't feel like I had a choice. I felt like I was being held at knife-point.

"It's a pity you're so nice," she said after I had given her my number, "Otherwise I think we'd get on great."

I was fine with that. I put my foot on the pedals and rode home, collapsed on my bed and fell asleep. When I woke in the morning I had to take down all the posters around my house with women on them. Even my Margaret Thatcher poster had to go. I would never go speed dating again.

About a week passed and I received a few messages on my answering machine from the speed dating girl. She said she had thought about it and decided that she didn't care if I wasn't her usual type; she had a good time the other night and would like to see me again. How about a romantic dinner followed by a night at her place? Was Thursday ok?

I didn't call her back.


End file.
